


i've got my love to keep me warm

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Marriage, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13002186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: For as long as he could remember, Tsarevich Illya had been cold. Nothing could warm him, not even as a child when he would be bundled in furs and thick mittens, nor as a babe in his mother's arms, swaddled in blankets. He could feel; he was no stranger to pain nor to pleasure. To hard blows or soft caresses. But warmth, heat, was something he had never known.





	i've got my love to keep me warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meinposhbastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/gifts).



> Well this was fun to write! Hope you like it :)
> 
> Thanks to [dancink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancink) for looking it over for me
> 
> 11/03/18: Atanau [made this beautiful edit](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/post/171722564448/inspiration-ive-got-my-love-to-keep-me-warm-by) inspired by this fic! Thank-you so much. I'm gobsmacked <333

For as long as he could remember, Tsarevich Illya had been cold. Nothing could warm him, not even as a child when he would be bundled in furs and thick mittens, nor as a babe in his mother's arms, swaddled in blankets. He could _feel_ ; he was no stranger to pain nor to pleasure. To hard blows or soft caresses. But warmth, heat, was something he had never known.

As the years passed, the Tsar and Tsarina sought one solution after another to their son's frosty malady. The kingdom's tailors and seamstresses toiled day in and day out making clothes to warm him, but to no avail. The weavers wove the heaviest blankets but none could thaw his chilled bones. Furriers and tanners sought far and wide for new and exotic animal skins to bring back for their Tsarevich but the thickest furs, the sturdiest leathers, could not warm him, either.

Physicians and witches and charlatans alike were employed, but none could find reason nor remedy for Illya's cold affliction.

When they finally employed a soothsayer, she told them that there existed one who could warm the solemn Tsarevich. When they found this one, she said, Illya ought to make sure to keep him close by.

After this, his parents renewed their efforts, sending huntsman to find this beast whose skin would cure their son, though Illya thought it was all nonsense, and made no secret of it.

By the year of his thirty second birthday, Illya had grown weary of his parents' endless quest. Warmth was unknown to him. How could he miss or long for something he had never known? But his parents wondered how he could ever be happy without knowing the warmth that came from another's touch. More importantly, how he could ever hope to marry if his own touch was cold. Who could wish to be touched by such cold hands, they would say.

Illya easily knew the answer to that question: no one. He also knew his parents' endless search for this mythical beast was a hopeless cause, but still they tried.

Two days before his birthday, when he was out hunting, he became separated from his party. It was nice, he thought, to be alone in the forest. He took off his gloves and rested back against a tree, breathing in the fragrant, spring air. As he rested, a strange sound caught his attention and he followed it to where a large, grey wolf lay. Illya's hand immediately went to the hilt of his sabre, but then he saw blood on the wolf's fur. It was injured.

Illya would never know why, but he bent down and placed his hand on the wolf's side. The animal whimpered in pain, its striking blue eyes cloudy and unfocussed. Illya expected the wolf to lash out, but it only lay there, watching Illya with an unnervingly intense gaze. It was strange behaviour for a wild animal. But what shocked Illya the most was that he could feel the warmth of the wolf's skin beneath his matted fur.

'You're warm,' he said, unaware that his father had caught up with him, and watched the scene with increasing interest.

'What did you say?' asked his father.

Illya stood, then, and turned to the Tsar. 'The wolf. He's warm. I can feel it.'

'Then this is the beast we have been searching for,' his father said and drew his sabre.

'No!' cried Illya before his father could land the blow.

'But, my son, this is the beast we have searched for all these years,' his father repeated.

'I only meant...' Illya was aware of the hunting party staring at him, strangely. His mind raced. He had to save the wolf, but he didn't know why. Slowly, he said, 'It would make a fine ceremony if we killed him on my birthday.'

'Very well,' said the Tsar but he didn't seem entirely convinced. Still, he had always been happy to indulge his son, but Illya had not been a child, nor was he a man, prone to whims, and so there had been little to indulge. Until now. He sheathed his sabre. 'Let's take him back to the palace.'

And, so, they did. If Illya hadn't known better, he would have thought that the wolf looked both relieved and afraid as it was carted away.

__

That night, Illya could think of nothing but the wolf. Had the soothsayer been right, after all? Was the hide of this poor creature the only thing that would warm him? The thought of killing the wretched wolf did not sit well, but, more than that, there was something about the wolf that called to him. He needed to see it, again.

Moonlight fell across the stable as Illya stole in, pushing the door open gently. The wolf lazily lifted its head when it heard the low groan of the door. It blinked up at Illya, seemed to look him up and down, then rested its head back on its folded paws.

'Hello,' Illya said, inanely. 'I brought you some food.' 

He laid the food down but the wolf made no move to eat it. It still seemed to be in pain and looked wary of Illya beyond that. Illya didn't blame it. Light glinted on the chains shackling the wolf, catching Illya's eye, and he sighed.

He moved closer and, sensing that the wolf would not lash out, unchained it. The wolf paced the length of the stable, then, limping a little. It crossed the room three times before it huffed in apparent frustration and flopped back down. Illya blinked at the unusual behaviour. Perhaps this was a tamed wolf, someone's companion, or used in a travelling show. It wasn't unheard of. Illya frowned.

'Do you belong to someone?' He asked the wolf. It didn't answer. 

Illya ran his hand along the wolf's snout, the wolf surprising him again by leaning into the touch. It felt warm, just as it had in the woods.

'Was the soothsayer right?' he said, awe and disbelief filling his voice. The wolf only tilted its head, as though in question.

So, Illya sat and told the wolf of the soothsayer's prophecy, of his strange affliction. Eventually, the wolf ate, lulled by Illya's voice, and the Tsarevich talked and talked, more than he ever had with another living being in his life. Perhaps he should have felt foolish, talking to an animal, but he only felt relief and comfort.

The hour grew late and Illya stood to leave. 'It would be wrong to kill you. I will try to find a way to save you,' he said, ruffling the wolf's fur, relishing its warmth, before he turned to leave.

As he did, he heard a strange sound, and then a man's voice, deep and smooth, said, 'Thank you.'

Illya gasped and wheeled around. 'How...what...' 

The wolf was gone and where it had lain, a man stood. He was tall, though not as tall as Illya, broader, intensely handsome. Inexplicable. But as Illya looked at the man, who was regarding him silently with one brow raised, understanding dawned. He had heard tales of men who could take the form of wolves. He just never thought they were real. But they must be, and this man must be one of them. This _naked_ man, Illya realised, gaze trailing over his exquisite form. He blushed and then he frowned when his gaze landed on the man's hip. An _injured_ , naked man.

'You're hurt,' he said, gesturing to the abrasion marring the man's pale skin. It wasn't the only one. Silvery scars, shining in the moonlight, littered the man's body. Illya wanted to know the story behind each one, wanted to know this man.

'Yes.' The man smirked, despite being naked and injured. 'And cold.'

'Oh,' said Illya and gave the man his cloak. Their fingers brushed, warmth shooting along Illya's hand, into his arm, at the touch. He swallowed, heavily.

And then the man smiled, crooked and beautiful, and Illya's heart warmed.

__

The secret passage was dark, lit only by the torch Illya held aloft in his shaking hand. Beside him, the man, the _werewolf_ , walked lightly, careful feet barely making a sound on the cobbled floor. Illya wondered where he had learned to be so stealthy, but dared not ask. The silence between them felt loaded, but precious, somehow. Illya did not want to break it.

'Here we are,' he said, when they came to the end of the passage. It opened onto a clearing, just by the edge of the woods.

A wind blew in from the woods as the two men stood looking at each other. The man shivered. Illya did not. 

'You can go back now,' the man said, looking out toward the woods. Despite having been captured and nearly killed for his hide, there was a cockiness about him that exasperated Illya. 'I know my way from here.'

Illya huffed. 'I just saved your life. No need to thank me.'

The man rolled his eyes. 'I didn't say I'm not thankful.' He shook his head. 'Never mind. Thank-you, your highness,' he said, with an exaggerated bow.

Illya narrowed his eyes, but his lips quirked. 'You're welcome. I think.'

Suddenly, the man took his hand and pulled him close. Illya did shiver, now. The man was handsome, and his shapeshifting nature was both alluring and frightening. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Illya's lips. Illya had been kissed before but it had never felt quite like this. New and familiar all at once.

'Thank-you,' the man repeated, emphatically.

Illya just gawped, lips and hand tingling, _warm_ all over.

'You told me a great many things tonight,' the man said, still grasping his hand. His blue eyes were earnest and shone in the moonlight. 'But not your name.'

Illya, still flustered from the kiss, blurted, 'Illya.' He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. 'My name is Illya.'

The man let go of his hand but he stayed close. His lips quirked and he said, simply, 'And I'm Napoleon.'

__

Weeks passed and Illya could think of nothing but Napoleon. He wondered where he was, what he was doing and, mostly, who he was with. A deep longing took hold of Illya's heart in those weeks. His parents had accepted, begrudgingly, that the wolf had escaped and eventually stopped searching for it. They also ceased their quest to find another cure and, instead, turned their focus to marriage.

Illya's protests fell on deaf ears and so he resigned himself to having to at least pretend to consider their choices for his spouse. He never thought his parents would go so far as to throw a ball for Illya to choose a bride (or groom, if needs must). But that is exactly what they did.

On the night of the ball, Illya's stomach was in knots, and he wished that Napoleon were there. Perhaps his parents would understand if he told them his heart had already been claimed. But, then again, he could hardly tell them he was pining after a werewolf he had met only once.

So, he put on his costume and mask, danced with as few people as he possibly could, and drank vodka spiked punch to drown his discomfort and misery. 

Halfway through the night a man in a grey wolf mask, wearing a sleek expensive suit, approached him and asked for the next dance. Illya nearly said no, having been weary of dancing even before the night started, but when the man's hand brushed his, and he felt warmth, he sucked in a breath. 

'Yes, Napoleon. I will dance with you.'

The man in the wolf mask froze and Illya worried he'd made a mistake, imagined the warmth in his desperation, his loneliness. But then the man removed his mask and revealed the handsome, grinning face of the roguish werewolf Illya had been thinking about for weeks. Napoleon held out his hand and Illya took it. It was as warm as Illya remembered and the touch thrilled through him.

'I've been thinking about you,' said Napoleon. His eyes never left Illya's as they twirled across the floor. 'And then I heard about this ball and I...I had to come.'

'I've been thinking about you, too,' said Illya and kissed Napoleon, holding him tight, paying no heed to the others around them. Dancing couples nearby gasped and murmurs filtered through the room, the news that the Tsarevich had kissed one of his dancing partners travelling fast.

Napoleon returned the kiss with fervour, pressing himself as close to Illya as he could.

His parents looked on as Illya danced and danced and danced with Napoleon, stealing kisses whenever possible, and were not surprised when, at the end of the night, he had an announcement to make.

__

Napoleon was beautiful, splayed out beneath him, face flushed and sweating as Illya thrust into him one last time. A moan wrenched itself from Illya's throat and he pressed his mouth to Napoleon's jaw. He was warm, _hot_ , everywhere he and Napoleon were touching. It was heady. Still inside Napoleon, he reached between them, took Napoleon's cock in his hand, then kissed him, slow and open-mouthed. Napoleon's hips thrust in time with Illya's hand and he soon came with a low moan.

'Beautiful,' Illya murmured and rested his forehead against Napoleon's as Napoleon pushed his fingers through Illya's hair. His breaths were fast and ragged. 

'I've got you,' Napoleon said and Illya realised he was shaking. Illya just nodded, arms finally giving out, and he managed to roll off of Napoleon instead of collapsing on top of him. Napoleon pulled until Illya's head was resting on his shoulder, his arm across Napoleon's stomach.

'I can't believe you made me wait until our wedding night for that,' Napoleon said, breathless and glorious.

A warm breeze stirred the curtains at the window, washing over the two men in the bed, cooling their sweat slicked bodies.

Illya huffed. 'Wanted to give you something to look forward to.'

'You didn't think being married to you was enough to look forward to?'

Illya just shrugged, but he was smiling.

'Well, you could have warned me,' Napoleon said. 'I think I've lost all feeling in my legs.'

Illya grinned, fully, now. 'You'll survive.'

'I hope so,' said Napoleon. 'I plan on doing a lot more of that.'

Illya leaned up, then, so he could look at Napoleon, his _husband_ , properly. He brushed a hand over Napoleon's face. 'So do I,' he said and kissed Napoleon, thoroughly.

__

Snow crunched under Illya's feet as he ran through the woods, the wind whipping his face, stinging. Napoleon, in wolf form, loped beside him, paws dancing over the snow. The air was crisp and cold in Illya's lungs. He had grown used to being warm, with Napoleon always close by, and actually shivered in the cool air.

He stopped, panting, when he realised Napoleon was no longer running with him. He turned back and saw the great grey wolf looking at him, mischief in his eyes. He reared back, tail wagging, paws sunk deep into the snow.

'Don't you dare,' Illya said but the wolf was already running at him. Before he could move, Illya found himself bowled over, Napoleon's paws on his shoulders. He was a warm, heavy weight on his chest. Illya sunk his hand into the fur at Napoleon's neck, the wolf leaning into the touch, tongue lolling. When he licked over Illya's face, he grimaced.

'Ugh,' Illya said, but made no move to push Napoleon away.

The wolf only smirked – and Illya hadn't known it was possible for a wolf, even one who was sometimes a man, to smirk – and then he shimmered and turned into Napoleon. It still jarred Illya to see the transformation, but it was part of Napoleon, and so he was slowly getting used to it.

'You should show more respect for your Tsarevich,' Illya said, trying to be stern, but failing utterly.

Napoleon only grinned and said, 'You love it,' then kissed him until he was breathless. Illya clutched at Napoleon's shoulders, Napoleon's knees either side of his hips. Napoleon's tongue was hot in his mouth when Illya parted his lips, skin hot beneath his palms.

'You'll catch your death,' Illya said, running his hands down Napoleon's naked back, when they finally parted. 

Napoleon just rubbed his nose against Illya's and said, 'You'll keep me warm.'

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! :)
> 
> The title is from the song of the same name


End file.
